You're Still With Me
by theonlyxception
Summary: 1895. The same year Sybil had been born. He had died only two years earlier than her—most likely to illness or because or having been the causality of war. The thought was overwhelming her as she felt a tugging on her skirt.


**I had every intention to make this story about Edith's feelings in episode 5x4, when she is forbidden from visiting Marigold. Then it turned into kind of a reflection piece. Enjoy!**

In her sorrows, Edith took a stroll around town. Not because she thought it was pretty that day, but she needed time to think after the fiasco with the Drewes. In her thoughts, it didn't help that she was berating herself for thinking she would get the chance to be in her daughter's life—or that she was so upset, she felt like she wanted to get as far away from them as possible.

Keeping her head down, she wiped at another tear trailing down her cheek. She was glad the hat on her head helped her avoid all curious glances that she must be receiving as she walked by. Besides, it was her fault that her daughter didn't know who she was, right? Nor did she know of her grandmother, grandfather, uncles, aunts and cousins. She didn't know her father either, and that was probably the most upsetting of all.

Suddenly not being able to breathe, Edith sat down on an empty bench as her knees buckled beneath her. Michael Gregson had been the love of her life and she had let him down not being able to take care of their own daughter. But when he had disappeared, it had broken her heart and she couldn't stand to bear to raise Marigold on her own; or to receive scathing looks when someone found out she had gotten pregnant by a married man.

Her eyes filled with tear as her she thought of Michael being alive and well, playing with their daughter on the floor of the nursery, and Marigold pointing happily to the things she might see as took a walk with her cousins. George and Sybbie.

Drawing in another breath, she knew that it was bad enough that Aunt Rosamund had helped her give birth, and her grandmother Violet knew secrets about bringing her daughter home from Switzerland so she could live closer. Edith could only imagine what either one would say about this latest ordeal. I told you so? You should have let her be where you left her?

The truth was if she had let her daughter be, Edith feared she would never see her again. Was it so hard that she wanted her daughter to have a normal life where she wasn't surrounded by money, raised by nannies and fed by servants? No offense to them—she loved them all like family, but there was just something about not being a hands-on-mother that continually nagged at her. The thought to be proper was unmistakably pressing, and sometimes even she felt like she didn't belong to the family she had been born into.

Brushing off her skirt, she had an unmistakable feeling to walk to the cemetery just a few blocks down. The flowers were in full bloom, the grass a bright green, the sun shining behind the trees—all the things that reminded her of her sister, who had always been caring and full of life.

Sybil Cora Branson

1895-1920

Beloved Daughter, Wife and Mother

"I can't believe it's been almost four years since you left us." Edith began, her tone full of disbelief as she turned her back towards the sunny meadow of graves. "I suppose you're still up there-probably enjoying your cup of tea with Matthew. I feel like you would have known what to do about all of this. Don't get me wrong, I love father, mother and Mary, but they never got me like you did. And now I desperately wish you were here to tell me what to do."

Just as she finished that thought, an elderly man and woman walked by—the cane he leaned against with his left hand, seemed to balance them out as they walked down the pathway. As they did, Edith found herself watching as the couple stopped at a medium sized grave, their fingers intertwining together; lips locking in sorrow.

She turned back towards the grave. "I suppose that was your doing. You telling me that there's actually somebody out there for me, even though I'm not sure that there is. Michael was the love of my life." She looked around to make sure that no one was listening in on their conversation. "I wanted to be wrong about him being dead. We have a-"

Just then a mother and son walked by, heading in the same direction as the elderly couple; only they stopped a few feet short of where they were standing and cast their eyes toward two smaller graves. In the boy's pudgy hand, he held a red flower that he then balanced on one of the graves.

Touching her sister's grave with one final goodbye, Edith approached the path with hesitance. Her breathing was shallow as she offered the elderly couple a weak smile before walking out of the cemetery. Having caught the engraved names on the graves—of both the elderly couple and mother and son were standing by-Edith had to swallow back tears when she had caught sight of the birth date on one of the graves.

Harold James Williams

1895-1918

Son. Husband. Father.

1895\. The same year Sybil had been born. He had died only two years earlier than her—most likely to illness or because or having been the causality of war. The thought was overwhelming her as she felt a tugging on her skirt. It was the little boy who had been standing by his mother just a few moments earlier. He couldn't have been any younger than six, but he removed his flat hat and looked up her with the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"Excuse me."

Quickly wiping away her tears away, she leaned down so she was on his level. "And who might you be?"

"Michael James Williams, ma'am."

"What can I do for you Michael?"

"Michael James." His mother called for him as she gestured for him to come back as she turned back towards the two graves. Her hair was brown and curly, tucked away in her own hat; lips plump and red.

"Mama said we lost papa after I was born, so we're visiting him today. And we're also visiting my sister. Are you visiting someone too?"

"My younger sister, actually-"

"Michael James." His mother reached for his arm, but he pulled away. "You stop bugging this poor woman."

"It's quite alright." Edith insisted, straightening her back. "I could much use the company right about now." The woman nodded at her politely, but drew in a sharp breath of recognition.

"You're Lady Edith."

"I am."

"I'm sorry for your loss, m'lady." She bowed her head in respect, wrapping her hands protectively around her son.

"As am I. Michael was just telling me about the loss of your husband and daughter."

"He died when Michael was not even two months old."

"So you've been raising him alone since then?"

"I was, yes. I never thought that I would meet someone that treated me right, like my Harold did. But then out of the blue, I found him." Giving her a blushing smile, the woman's eyes lit up. "We've been married for almost six months. We still come every weekend to visit Harold."

"And your daughter?" Edith inquired carefully, she tried not to overstep her boundaries.

"I'm afraid Jane had been ill for a long time." Looking over her shoulder, she gazed back in the direction of where her husband and daughter had been laid to rest. "She would have been eight today."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

She nodded in appreciation. "We thank you for your kindness, but we should really get going."

"Of course."

Michael stuck his hand out to her. "It was nice meeting you m'lady."

Edith nodded, calling after him. "You too." Glancing over at her sister's grave that peeked out from the big aspen tree. "I guess you're still with me after all." She said softly, before making the journey back home.


End file.
